


a hopeful song we barely understood

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: (but just a little), Arranged Marriage, Culture Shock, F/F, Fantasy, First Kiss, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, In a sense, Magic, Nobility, Of a sorts, Politics, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29415111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sanah’s first impression of Drontis was that it had survived the war unscathed—and then she remembered that the war had never come to Drontis in the first place.*Or: an formerly exiled princess, a foreign land, and learning to build a life far from home.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Princess Entering An Arranged Marriage/Her Princess Bride
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2
Collections: Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2020





	a hopeful song we barely understood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lemonsharks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsharks/gifts).



> Lemonsharks, I do so hope you enjoy. There were things about this fic that were with me from the first moment I read your prompts (such as city-states and metal weaving) and things I couldn't quite cram in there, even after five or six months (namely, overt politics). This was a labor of love and still a joy to write, when my mind could sink fully into Sanah's world.
> 
> Title from When You Believe from _The Prince of Egypt._
> 
> Most names came from various generators at fantasynamegenerators.com. Any similarities to real world names or words is definitely an accident.

Sanah’s first impression of Drontis was that it had survived the war unscathed—and then she remembered that the war had never come to Drontis in the first place. 

She descended down the gangway, her small pack strapped to her back and her loom fitted carefully over it, trying not to get shoved clear off the mooring mast—it would be a long way down—by the family behind her. She had a bird’s eye view of the city, unfurling from where it was trapped between the airfields and the ocean, and it was… _alive._ Alive in a way Fre Strua hadn’t been, when she’d finally stepped through her city’s gates once more. 

She held the railing a little tighter and descended, listening to the flow of Drontisi around her, the clipped tumble of Beralan, the familiar soft vowels of the odd Freän word dropped into random sentences. The wind tugged on her unbound hair and dress—her second best dress, because she had lent her best to Nasmet the day before she’d left Ashea, and hadn’t had time to retrieve it—until she was low enough on the mast’s spiral staircase that the airship hangars shielded her from its grasping fingers. 

The family behind her were speaking—quite loudly—in Drontisi, complaining about her, assuming that she didn’t know their language. They were calling her a refugee, in the most unkind way their peculiar language could imply, and—

Well, Sanah supposed they were correct, in a way. 

The airfield was crammed with passengers, both departing and embarking, along with airship crews loading cargo, merchants hawking wares, and hopefuls hawking their own skills, looking to be hired onto the crew of a departing ship. It was deafening, and crowded, and stank of iron slag. Someone knocked into Sanah’s back, sending her stumbling forward into a man carrying one end of a large chest. He swore at her in Beralan and she fell back, hands raised in apology. 

Nearby, a young man was calling in accented Drontisi, missing the correct inflections but still understandable, “—second tier ironsmyth journeyman! Looking fo—”

He was swallowed by the crowd before she could hear more, but Sanah knew it wouldn’t be long before he found work on a ship. Ironsmyths were valuable, practical in a way that her copper loom wasn’t, particularly on this side of the Serian Sea. He’d be put to work smything the iron vats that ran the airships, until he reached his destination, or he burned himself out. 

The edge of the airfield dumped her into a marketplace, overflowing with more people. This was nothing like Ashea, too small to host a market every day of the week, and nothing like the mournful stillness of Fre Strua after the war. This was barely controlled chaos, with merchants straying into their neighbors’ areas and out into the paths, jostling one another in competition for the crowd’s attention. It smelled of strange foods and the too-close press of bodies under the mid-morning sun.

She pushed on, letting the current of the crowd carry her through the chokepoint of the market and out into the city. It was nothing like Fre Strua with its wide and gently curving streets—Port Bisnaad, the summer capital of Drontis, was angular and cramped, full to the bursting and baking under the hot southern sun. 

She had to find the court.

The crush of people surrounding Sanah dissipated the further she moved from the airfield. Three turns away from the market, she spotted a stocky Beralan woman walking towards her, dark hair caught up in brightly colored silk, basket of goods propped against one hip. She was on her way to the market, or perhaps leaving another one. Despite the silk, she was dressed as a Drontisi woman in loose fitted pants and a light colored top to combat the weather. 

Sanah held out a hand, half question, half request to stop, and the woman slowed before her. She had the look of someone who smiled often, her sunworn skin lined beside her eyes and around her mouth. She wasn’t smiling now. 

“Sister,” Sanah said in Beralan, which, thankfully, was better than her Drontisi, “might you direct me to the court?”

The woman did smile then, the bemused sort of smile reserved for travelers everywhere. She quirked a brow and said, “You’re headed the right way,” then proceeded to give the worst directions Sanah had ever heard in her life. 

She thanked her anyway, and waited until the woman disappeared around the corner before approaching a nearby shopkeeper organizing the wares by his storefront. Sanah wasn’t as familiar with the Drontisi script, but he looked to be a leatherworker. His dark skin was flushed and shiny with sweat, and he barely glanced over his shoulder at her when she stumbled over her own tongue trying to ask for directions.

“Take this street to—” a word she didn’t understand “—then it’s three blocks and a right turn. You can’t miss it.” All of this he told to his wares, not bothering to look at her again.

She thanked him and left. 

Forge protect her, she had no idea where she was going. 

*

By the time she made it to the court—with another stop for directions when she stumbled across someone who could, thank the flames, speak Freän, though the words sounded sideways in his mouth with that Dranan accent of his—the sun was sinking low over the looming mooring masts in the west, throwing Sanah’s shadow out before her as she walked.

The Drontisi court, like the rest of the city, proved to be little like Fre Strua. She’d grown up in the cold and echoing halls of Fra Strua, her city’s castle, surrounded by gray stone and a tangled spider web of politics. The tall, impenetrable walls—though the war had proved they were not nearly as impenetrable as she’d once believed—had kept her from her city and her people for nearly all of her life, right until the moment she’d been sent away to Ashea. 

This court was open—mockingly so. She only knew it for what it was by the color of the wood, a deep, rich brown that came from the north and was hopelessly expensive to import. The first buildings were graceful, opensided pavilions draped with sheer fabric dyed the deepest, richest blue she’d ever seen. People moved freely throughout, or along the stone paths that wound alongside the buildings, drifting past well maintained bushes and fountains. Past the pavilions, she could see the rise of the court proper, but still, there was no _protection._ The only thing that separated the court from the city was a shallow and slow moving stream, but even that was crossed by several beautiful, arching bridges, none patrolled by guards or soldiers.

It left her feeling exposed. Dangerously so.

No one stopped her as she crossed the nearest bridge, a fine thing made of the same dark wood as the pavilions. She ran her hand along the banner, felt the smooth length of it beneath her palm. There were no rough edges or loose splinters to catch on her skin. 

In the Freän cities, they worked stone and metal, not wood. 

She crossed to the far side of the bridge, and still, no one stopped her, though she received a few looks that she recognized well. Sanah was out of place here, and they all knew it. 

Before her, the stone path branched off in three directions. She considered each of them, then moved off to the side so she wouldn’t obstruct the paths of others. She didn’t know if anyone knew to expect her, if they would honor the agreement they’d signed with the coronet, or if they would turn her away and she would have to find a way to survive here in a strange land. And what of her people, if Drontis would not honor the treaty? Fre Eshal would continue to creep closer to the Struan borders, with Fre Drana close on their heels. War would destroy her city, if Drontis did not provide aid.

She would not allow it if she could.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she held a hand out to the next person to pass her by, a woman half a head taller than herself and handsomely broad at the shoulders and waist.

“May I—” she began in Drontisi, but the woman held up a hand and smiled, revealing a crooked eye tooth.

“You’re Freän, yes?” the woman asked, in a dialect of Freän that Sanah didn’t immediately recognize but was still much better than her own grasp on Drontisi. She burned with shame, to be unable to even speak the woman’s language in her own lands, but nodded. The woman continued, “How can I assist you, honored guest?”

Sanah took another breath, and told herself,  _you will do what you must._

She said, “I am here to speak with the dron.”

The woman’s brows shot up, and her smile took on a strange curl.

“I can show you the way, if you’d like,” she said, holding out a hand toward the leftmost path. She waited, nodding to a passing couple, elegantly dressed, until Sanah stepped forward to draw level with her. 

They started off together, following the left path as it curled around the massive, intricately carved corner pillar of the closest pavilion. She saw a sprawling scene of flowers, bees, and animals she didn’t recognize before the path curved away to accommodate a fountain. She didn’t crane her neck to keep looking, though she wanted to, because it was unbecoming of a princet. 

Of course, she wasn’t much of a princet these days—only, it seemed, when it benefited the coronet—but it was the intention that mattered.

As they skirted around a woman crouched beside a young, crying child, the woman asked, “If I may—I’ve never heard an accent such as yours before. Which city calls you home?”

It was so perfectly worded—the same question, in the same ancient form, that the coronets used to greet one another on state visits—that it nearly brought tears to her eyes. This was a woman who was well-versed in Freän culture, too, who had spent time amongst her people.

She could not well say _no city, not anymore,_ so Sanah told her the next best thing. “Fre Strua. It is a relatively small city in the northeast, in the foothills of the Elu Mountains.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it,” the woman said, and cast a sideways glance at Sanah through the curtain of her dark braids, considering. “The war affected Fre Strua greatly, did it not? Were you displaced by the fighting?”

Sanah pressed her lips into an approximation of a smile. “No, thankfully. At the time, I was living in a smaller settlement in the mountains.”

The path branched before them, and the woman guided her to the right fork. There was a bridge there, running over another—or the same?—stream, and beyond it, the buildings were now walled and windowed, though many of the thresholds were wide and still lacked doors.

“I must say,” Sanah said after a moment, curious and unable to stop herself, “I find the Drontisi court… unexpected.”

The woman laughed, bright and equally unexpected. She turned her face fully to look at Sanah for a long second, before continuing down the path. 

“We’re better defended than we look, I can assure you,” she said, then added, “but yes, it’s different here. I’ve only been to one of the Freän cities, and it was several years ago now. Have you been to Fre Kires?”

Fre Kires is the southernmost of the Freän cities, nearly as warm and wet as Drontis was, and Sanah had never graced its port, for it was too far from Fre Strua and too small to be worth cultivating an active relationship. She said so. She spent the rest of the walk listening to the woman—whose name she did not know, and now it was too late to ask politely—and her tales of what Kires had looked like five years ago, in the months just after Sanah had put the gates of Fre Strua to her back. It was a lively city, to hear the woman speak of it, full of music and art and metalsmything so beautiful it put the rest of the western cities to shame.

That last bit, at least, Sanah doubted, but she held her tongue. It was hard for foreigners to imagine the quality of Fre Strua’s fine goldsilk and delicate silverlace if they hadn’t seen it for themselves, and she couldn’t hold it against them.

The buildings in this part of the court were closer together and grander, in some places twice as big as the pavilions she’d seen before. The path beneath her feet was no longer stone but instead uniform paving stones. There was something approaching a crowd on all sides, though it was undoubtedly the nobility of Drontis, dressed in light, richly dyed silks, intricate pieces of jewelry woven into their hair. Here and there, moving amongst the others, she caught the gait of a soldier or the hilt of a sword. Better defended indeed.

In comparison to these beautiful people, her escort was dressed rather plainly, in an outfit more similar to the Beralan trader she’d stopped for directions.

She thought, for a moment, that she had stopped a servant or another visitor to the court, but she was clearly Drontisi, and there was something about the way others reacted to her—respectful nods at the very least, but some full bows—that told her this woman was someone important. Which made it all the more awkward that Sanah still had no idea who she was. 

They were approaching, finally, the grandest of the buildings she’d thus far seen, with arches taller than three men standing on one another’s shoulders and more of those gorgeous blue silks. Beyond the roofline, there was another set of mooring masts, presumably for the dron and their heirs and other important visitors to the city.

This had to be the heart of the court, and Sanah found it staggering in its breadth. The Drontisi court had to be close in size to the entirety of Ashea, if not larger, and the city that surrounded it was no doubt many times larger. Bigger, surely, than Fre Strua. Perhaps even larger than Fre Eshal and all of its great, land-eating greed.

The woman climbed the stairs that led up and Sanah followed. They passed through the hanging silks into a vast hall, where the ceiling arched high above their heads and tapestries hung in sequence along the walls. She looked a little closer at the next one they passed—textile, not metals. Sanah hadn’t seen many textiles woven with such mastery, and she would have preferred a moment to study them closer. The woman did not slow, however, and Sanah realized that she would have all the time in the world, once the treaty had been finalized.

Assuming, of course, that they did not refuse it entirely.

They approached the end of the hall, where a set of great wooden doors were thrown wide, guarded on either side by a soldier, the first she had seen in a formal uniform. They, too, nodded to her guide, but remained at a respectful distance when she slowed and stopped some distance away. Sanah stopped as well, and turned to face the woman, tilting her chin up to meet her eyes.

They were the color of bronze, burnished with age, and Sanah’s breath caught in her chest. 

A corner of the woman’s mouth pulled up, slightly. She said, “Here we are. You arrived at a good time, my friend. The dron is still taking petitions.”

Sanah opened her mouth to correct her, but the woman continued on. 

“You can speak our language, yes?” Sanah nodded. “Good. The dron is fair, and will listen, at least, to what you bring before her. I wish you luck.”

She gestured and took a half step back, clearing the way for Sanah to continue on her own. There was a moment, a foolish, selfish moment, when Sanah wanted to ask the woman to stay with her—but she had already taken so much of her time. It would not be fair to drag her into Struan matters. 

And so instead, she gave the woman a formal court bow, straightened, and strode through the doorway without a backwards glance.

*

It took time to be called before the dron. 

She spoke, briefly, with the undersecretary tasked with organizing the petitioners, focusing hard to ensure she made as few mistakes as possible. The man didn’t believe her purpose there, not until she took the loom down off her back and pulled the signed copy of the treaty out of her pack. Her shoulders ached only in the absence of the loom’s weight, and she sighed and resisted the urge to stretch discreetly while the secretary read the paper over.

It took some further effort to not snatch the scroll back; whether the many knew it or not, the words had been written by the finest hand Fre Strua had to offer, and in gold worked so finely it was nearly indistinguishable from regular ink, save for the color and sheen. The lettering alone was worth more than everything else Sanah carried with her.

When he had finished, he looked at her again, caught somewhere between embarrassed and unimpressed. He consulted the sheaf of papers he carried with him, gave a shallow bow, and said, “We were not expecting your arrival so soon, Princet da’Strua. This is—unorthodox.”

Sanah inclined her head in acknowledgement of the understatement as she once more shouldered her pack. She left her loom leaning against her calf, reluctant to bear its bulk again so soon. 

“I am aware,” she told him. “I understand if this is not the best… time to be introduced to Dron Khezu. But I had no way to alert the court to my arrival.”

She saw him take in her frayed hem, the simple loom that was her only belonging of value, and could guess the conclusions he was arriving at. 

At long last, he said, “I understand, Princet. I will see what can be done.”

She thanked him and he returned the treaty before going on his way, slipping through the sparse crowd of people that occupied this far end of the receiving hall. Sanah bent wearily to pick up her loom before moving to the side, where she would not be in anyone’s way. 

This hall was much the same as the one before it, constructed of great wooden beams nearly as wide as she was tall and intricately carved with scenes that unfurled along the length of the room. Nearest to her was the crowning of a ruler, one man kneeling before another who held a ceremonial mantle aloft with both hands.

She stepped closer to see more clearly. Her clothes clung to her skin after the long walk under the sun, and Sanah tried to keep her arms away from her body as she studied the carvings, hoping no one would notice the awkwardness in her posture.

The level of detail was extraordinary and distracted her from her discomfort—she could make out the tiny pattern stitched into the mantle’s hem, the individual hairs in the man’s beard. She could only imagine the level of mastery required, the years of hard work and dedication it took to create something so beautiful. 

She would miss her sister weavers like air kept from a dying flame, but at least, it seemed, she would not be deprived of art.

The group nearest her—all women, and dressed in the style of merchants—were speaking quietly to one another, though she caught the woman closest to her glancing over her shoulder more than once, her dark eyes curious and considering. Sanah supposed it was to be expected; she was the only one in the audience hall that was not Drontisi or Beralan, as well as the only one dressed as a traveler with the dust still on their hems. The traveler bit, at least, could be rectified; her looks, not so much. She would simply have to become accustomed to the stares, at least until the court became accustomed to her. 

Eventually, the group drifted apart. The woman that had been studying Sanah was called to speak with the dron, several others accompanying her. Two men turned towards one another to speak privately, and a third folded himself into a nearby knot of petitioners, his smile glinting as he introduced himself. He had a loud, boisterous laugh that quickly drew his companions in.

Something moved in Sanah’s peripheral vision, and she turned to catch a glimpse.

It was the woman who had guided her here, listening to a young man talk as they traversed the hall. They looked enough alike to be siblings, or at the very least kin. The woman’s expression softened into a fond smile before they disappeared from Sanah’s view. She wondered what business the woman had, if she was also here to have her petition heard, but—

It didn’t matter. Even if she was a member of the court, it was very unlikely that Sanah would have reason to see her after today, no matter the dron’s decision.

*

It was only later, after most of the hall had cleared, that Sanah was called forward by the undersecretary. 

She pulled the treaty from her pack once more and then swung her loom onto her back, not bothering to secure the traps that would keep it in place. There would be time, later, for that. 

Sanah crossed to the far side of the hall without even the undersecretary beside her.

Had Eindra, Coronet da’Strua, Jewel of the Elu Mountains, and Sanah’s _sister_ , acknowledged tradition, Sanah would have an abundance of attendants with her. They would have handled all of this on her behalf: someone to announce her arrival and to organize her dowry and someone to consult with the dron’s household. She would have trunks of items to present the dron, the finest weavings and materials Fre Strua could offer, rather than a single, slightly crumpled treaty, written in Drontis with no Freän translation so she had only understood three words in five when reading it over herself. 

Sanah reached the end of the hall as another undersecretary announced her by her full title, and laid eyes on Dron Khezu for the first time. 

She was a woman of [middling?] age, her hair going gray in its braids. She had a steady air to her that spoke of countless battles won and an unshakeable confidence, the same mantle from the carvings settled across her shoulders. Dron Khezu had seen Freän cities rise and fall over her reign, and looked as though the fate of another was of little concern to her. Her throne was unpretentious, hewn from the same beautiful wood that made the hall, but it suited her own aura of power.

She was everything that Eindra thought herself to be, and in comparison, Dron Khezu made Eindra look like little more than a spoilt child throwing a tantrum when she didn’t get her way.

Sanah had known something of Drontisi culture and court etiquette once—Fre Strua was too close to their borders to be entirely ignorant—but anything she had learned had been learned more than five years ago now, and she found she couldn’t remember any of it. Instead, she folded herself into the appropriate bow for when one visited a coronet in their own city, careful of the unsecured loom on her back, and hoped that it would suffice.

After an agonizingly long moment in which Sanah tried not to let the loom shift across her spine in the near silence of the hall, Dron Khezu spoke. Her voice was strong and sure.

“Welcome, Princet da’Strua. Please, rise.”

Sanah rose, grateful to relieve some of the ache in her knees. She looked up, and—

There was the woman again. The same woman who had shown her through the court, standing to the right of the dron, her hands clasped behind her back. The young man was beside her as well, and the look he gave Sanah was appraising, one eyebrow raised slightly.

Dron Khezu spoke again, pulling Sanah’s eyes away from the woman. “Tell me, does Coronet da’Strua treat all of her subjects thus? Or just her sisters?”

“No, Dron Khezu,” Sanah said, feeling wrong footed already. Once, she had known all the ways to navigate the tangled spider’s web of court without once getting caught, but that knowledge, too, had abandoned her. “Following the truce between Fre Strua and Fre Eshal, there was too much to be done. The coronet felt she could not spare an entourage to escort me.”

Dron Khezu’s gaze sharpened, and Sanah tried not to worry that she had given something away. Drontis was to be their ally, and they were already offering more than they would receive in return from Fre Strua. It was an unbalanced agreement, and one that she knew they would attempt to balance one day. She did not wish to give them leverage to take more from her already struggling city. 

But without Drontis’s support, Fre Strua would not withstand another attack, from either within or without. If leverage is what Khezu needed to fulfill the treaty, then Sanah would give it to her, gladly. 

She bowed again, then held out the copy of the treaty; the official one had already arrived via courier airship, long before Eindra had carved Sanah out of Ashea and sent her on her way, but the _tradition_ was still important. Was _necessary._

Someone approached and took the scroll of paper from her hands, but did not step away. Sanah kept her back straight and her head low, though it made her body ache. She did not allow herself to tremble.

“Stand, child,” said Dron Khezu from just above her, her voice a little softer now, though no less powerful. 

This was nothing like it ought to be. But Fre Strua— _Eindra,_ in truth, and all of her advisors behind her—was desperate, and now, for whatever reason, Drontis was willing to provide what her people needed. _Sanah_ was desperate, but that did not explain this small, unnecessary kindness.

Sanah straightened, and met Khezu’s eyes, speckled like greening copper. Khezu held her gaze for a moment longer, then looked down to the treaty. Her brow rose, and her mouth curled in a way that was _almost_ familiar, surprised and pleased all at once. She said, “I did not know there were any left in the eastern cities who knew the metal script.”

“We have a few, still,” Sanah told her, and wondered just how much Khezu knew of her closest Freän neighbor. Drontis was known to keep to itself, at least before agreeing to this alliance, and it had always been anyone’s guess how much attention they paid to the outside world.

This entire alliance proved, clearly, that they did. 

“Good,” Khezu said, and sounded like she meant it. She retreated to the throne and settled herself there once more. She flicked a glance at the woman to her right, who was already looking to her. Khezu continued, “The majority of the agreement has been handled by my ambassador to Fre Strua. The final requirement is the marriage that will bind our two lands together, in peace and in war. You will marry my niece.”

When Khezu gestured, the woman stepped forward and bowed, first to the dron and then to Sanah, and Sanah tried to note the subtle differences in posture and form. When she straightened, she gave Sanah a smile that revealed the same crooked eye tooth.

The woman said, “It is a pleasure to meet you again. I am Dron Natan. I am to be your wife.”

_ Oh. _

*

The rooms Sanah was shown to were beautiful, if plain, and located in another building to the east—as far as she could tell—of the audience hall. A servant had brought her here following the conclusion of her hearing with Dron Khezu. Natan had bowed a final time and disappeared with her kinsman before Sanah could even think to approach her, and so she had let herself be swept away by the servant, who had deposited her here and then swept back out again.

Outside, the sun had long since set, casting her room into shadows. 

Before Sanah could decide what to do first—light a fire or find the lamps or take the heavy burden from her shoulders—there was a knock at the door. 

“Enter,” she said in Drontisi, and hoped her inflection was correct. 

The door swung open to reveal a new face, a young woman likely close in age to Sanah’s younger brothers. She smiled as she stepped in, a basket tucked under one arm. Beyond her, Sanah caught a glimpse of a pair of guards stationed to either side of the door. 

“Hello,” the young woman said in blessed Freän, though her accent was the same as Natan’s. “I am Imun. I am to assist you, at Dron Natan’s request.”

Sanah smiled helplessly back, and gestured helplessly with a hand. “You are welcome here, Imun.”

Imun closed the door and went to the table that took up the majority of the room, setting the basket down before pulling back the cloth cover. Imun considered the contents for a moment, and then stepped away to light the lamps at the edge of the room. When she was done, she looked back to Sanah, hands propped up on her hips. 

“Let me help you with your things,” Imun said, and moved before Sanah could tell her not to. 

In Ashea, they had helped one another secure their looms to and from the market, but this was different. This was not Nasmet or another friend, laughing as they tried to predict what mischief Thald would created as he continued his attempts to woo Breal. This was a servant, a stranger in a foreign land, and it became clear quickly that Imun had no experience with a metal loom, where it was safe to put pressure or where the straps unbuckled. 

Sanah held herself achingly still until Imun had stepped back and laid her loom aside. It was the work of a moment to shrug off her pack and hand it off to Imun, who set it aside as well. Then—with some coaxing—she came to sit at the table with her back to the unlit hearth. 

It was a relief—an absolute, overwhelming relief—to be off her feet for the first time since exiting the airship. Sanah sat and tried to ignore the pulsing ache in her knees and feet as Imun moved around the room, lighting a small fire in the hearth, though it wasn’t truly necessary, and rummaging through the basket she had brought with her. At last, she unearthed a comb and a small bottle of oil, setting the oil aside before turning. 

“May I brush your hair before you retire?” Imun asked, and Sanah wanted to pluck information from her, to understand why Dron Natan had sent her a servant who spoke her language fluently, why she was being housed in these austere rooms, what sort of a person Natan would prove herself to be—but Sanah was tired and heartsick, and so she only nodded.

The oil was a kind thought, but Sanah’s hair did not have the same texture that many others’ did—a gift from her father, her mother had often told her—and so she asked Imun to forgo that step for the night.

It felt like it had been an age since Sanah had left Ashea—though, by her sleep sodden math, it had truly only been two weeks, at most—and since she had last had someone to help with her hair. It was something past relief, something shattering and all consuming, to feel that first touch of a comb to her hair and know that she would not have to lift her aching arms to complete the task. Instead, she tilted her head back and closed her eyes as Imun worked the comb through the days old knots.

Imun did not speak as she worked, another blessing that Sanah accepted without reservation. Tension bled from her back and shoulders and neck the longer Imun combed, until Sanah was barely able to hold her neck firm against the rhythmic tug and pull. 

After a time, Imun set the comb down on the tabletop and said, “There. Done.”

Sanah blinked and tried to emerge from the fog of drowsy relaxation she had slipped into. When she did, Imun was standing at the basket again, but she cast a smile in Sanah’s direction.

“I’ve brought sleep clothes,” Imun said, and hesitated. “Dron Natan was not sure what supplies you had brought with you.”

Sanah had clothes with her, but nothing that would be suitable for a foreign court. Even her sleep clothes would be scrutinized now, first by the washers and then by the servants they knew. Eventually, word would filter up to the nobility, and they would watch her even more closely, waiting for further cracks. Sanah could not afford that, now.

“Thank you, Imun,” she said, and Imun smiled again, bright and pleased. She reminded Sanah too, somewhat, of her younger brothers, in particular Kolte, who had been off at school in Fre Drana when Eindra had barred her from Fre Strua. He had that same bright spark to his happiness that was impossible to resist. 

He would be a grown man now, or nearly there. 

She breathed through her nose as Imun pulled a modest sleeping gown from her basket and moved to help her undress.

The fabric was soft and light on her skin, unlike the heavy weaves they favored in her home. It was simply one of many things she would have to adjust to, now.

Imun guided her to the next room, where the bed waited for her. Her limbs felt heavy and unwieldy as she struggled beneath the covers, and then Imun smoothed them out. 

She slept.

*

Her first week in Port Bisnaad passed in something of a blur. Nothing was required of her, save for showing up at the wedding—whenever that was set to occur. Imun told her that most of the ceremony had been settled prior to her arrival, but it would take some time to finalize the last details now that Sanah was here.

The morning after she arrived, the guards did not try to stop her when she left the room, dressed in the tunic and pants that Imun had left out for her. That they didn’t stop her likely meant they were there to protect her, rather than watch her every move, though she didn’t doubt they would report anything unusual to the dron. When she asked, one directed her to a place where she could find food, if she did not wish to wait for Imun to bring it to her. Sanah, who had long since grown used to rising with the sun and starting the day’s work immediately, had no patience for watching. She took the path she hoped was correct and tried not to notice the guard woman that followed her as she walked. 

She was left to wander, though an undersecretary came and found her, occasionally, if they had questions they felt only she could answer adequately. And so Sanah took the time to acquaint herself with the Bisnaad court. 

On the first day, she noticed for herself what Dron Natan had told her—the court was better protected than one first assumed. The streams were deeper than they appeared, and the bridges acted as choke points to more vulnerable areas of the court. Men and women of all ages—in guard uniforms and out—kept a sword at their hip, and a few even carried a bow and quiver on their back. Guard stations were discreetly placed in areas that would be most vulnerable to attack, though the guards there were not always overt.

It was masterfully done, and it still left the court with an air of life, of vitality to it that Fra Strua had often lacked. She certainly could not fault the dron—or her ancestors—for such a design.

She was left to her own devices for the evening meal, as well, a reprieve she did not expect but still welcomed as an unasked for gift nonetheless. 

The next day was much of the same. Sanah wandered, discovering the far northern and eastern edges of the court where the city once more crept in close. She had no money—none, at least, that would be accepted on Drontis soil—but she spent some time wandering through the closest market anyway. She felt better, knowing she had a guard assigned to protect her, and she felt less conspicuous in clothing actually meant for the climate. 

That market was more familiar to her than the one she had rushed through upon her arrival; this one was small, meant for the few blocks that surrounded it. She found a weaver woman from the Elu Mountains there and could have wept at the sight of her wares. 

Sanah ran her fingers across one tapestry, so wide that it must have been woven on a loom much larger than her own. She could feel the strength of the copper warp threads, the varying thicknesses and textures of the metal weft threads, the way bronze bled into copper bled into brass, the gentle color gradation it created. The weavers of Ashea were known for their geometric patterns, bold and eye catching, but this woman’s work was a subtle landscape that drew the eye and defied description. The weave was supple enough that it slid easily over her hand, distinguishable from cloth only in how cool it was against her skin.

This was, undoubtedly, the work of a master craftswoman. _Here,_ in Drontis.

“Well met, sister,” said the woman as she emerged from behind her stall. 

“Well met,” Sanah echoed. With some effort, she tore her eyes from the tapestry to look at her. She had the same solid build that most of the mountain women had, accustomed as they were to hardship and labor, same as the men. “What city calls you home?”

“Port Bisnaad,” the woman says, a smile lingering around her eyes. “But, before that, Ershe.”

She’d heard of Ershe; though technically outside of the bounds of Fre Strua’s claims to land, Ershe was situated on the western reaches of the mountains that Ashea also called home, and so they often came to Fra Strua for assistance. 

“Your work—” Sanah looked to the tapestry again and found its beauty just as stunning as before. “Your work is incredible. My loom is not nearly so big.”

The woman smiled fully, and thanked her. “My name is Ghissa. And yours?”

“Sanah,” she said, and was glad when Ghissa didn’t react. Sanah was not an uncommon name, but for many in the Elu Mountains, it was associated first with the banished princess of Fre Strua. Sanah wasn’t sure she wanted that sort of recognition. Certainly not yet, at least. 

Ghissa spent some time showing her around the stall, pointing out particular works she thought Sanah might like. They were all beautiful, the level of skill on display breathtaking to the point where Sanah had to pause and press a hand to her chest, trying to calm the overfed flame in her heart. 

Even though she fully expected that Ghissa would accept Struan currency, she didn’t have enough to pay even half of what any of the works were worth. But she had enough to buy a spool of brass, color as rich as the evening sun, and she did, thanking Ghissa before heading on her way. 

She did not want to assume, but—

Sanah thought of bringing Natan here, of showing her a piece of her culture, an idea of what the weavings of Fre Strua and its towns could look like. She thought that, perhaps if she did not ask for much else, natan might assist her in purchasing one tapestry.

She knew almost nothing of what her wife-to-be was like. But from what she had seen when Natan had shown her to the audience hall, she did not think Natan was the type of woman to dismiss culture and art out of hand entirely.

Sanah returned to her rooms and tucked the spool of brass into her traveling bag which remained in the sitting room where Imun had left it. She did not see much point in moving it. Not if she were to be relocated soon. 

*

On the third day, she woke earlier than normal and slipped her loom onto her back, securing the straps and then stooping to retrieve the brass and copper and her spindle. She stood and resisted the urge to groan, then left her rooms.

A guard followed her, as had become customary. Sanah wondered if Dron Natan had a guard, or if she was trained in the arts of war and did not require one. 

The sun had not yet risen when she stepped out of the hall her rooms were housed in, the sky clear and gray with only a hint of gold on the horizon. There was a place she’d found the other day, and she wanted to find it again, if she could. 

It took some time—and more than a few backtracks, courtesy of her guard—before Sanah found the gardens. 

They were lush nearly to the point of being overgrown and tucked behind a small hall that Sanah still did not know the purpose of. She could hear the faint burble of a stream passing nearby, or perhaps even through the gardens themselves, and little else. It was quiet, and removed from the rest of the court, and the perfect place for her to weave without fear of being interrupted. 

She found a bench and settled there, pulling the loom from her back and letting it lean against her shin. The warp threads were strung already, with the deep red copper they dug up in Ashea. The threads were already beginning to corrode, an unfortunate outcome in a place where even the air was wet most of the time. 

Sanah considered spinning fresh copper and restringing the loom, but decided against it. This was her home now, and even if Ghissa was skilled enough to keep her copper from greening, Sanah did not have that skill. Perhaps it would bring something to the finished work. If she could align it just right—

She reached for the brass spool, where the metal was wound in thick, unworkable strands, as she considered the pattern of the greening. It was the work of a moment to pull a thin working thread from the end of the spool, winding it around the spindle and dropping it to spin the brass into thread. 

The court woke around her as she spun, using her fingers and varying tension to change the thickness of the thread. She didn’t think, instead allowed the inclination of the metal to guide her fingers; it _wanted_ to flow in certain ways, and she worked with that will instead of against it. 

She hadn’t spun much by the time she heard voices and feet nearby. Though her guard had yet to react beyond a curious sort of attention, Sanah did not wish to bring unwanted awareness to her weaving, not when she didn’t know how the majority of the court would react. They didn’t have metalsmyths in Drontis beyond the laborers who traveled here for work that wasn’t warmaking. The nobility of Port Bisnaad would not have had much contact with them, in that case, and Sanah did not want to be the first.

She packed away her spindle and the spool and pulled her loom onto her back once more. There would be more time to weave, and, catching sight of an approaching secretary, she knew she would have plenty to occupy her time until then.

This proved to be more true than she expected. Imun found her that afternoon, as the sun was just touching the airship mooring masts in the west, to prepare her for dinner. 

The prospect was enough to make her freeze, wary of what a dinner with the dron and her family could entail. She had been at the court for three full days now, and it was the first time anyone of the ruling family had shown any interest in her, besides that first kindness of Dron Natan to assign Imun to assist her. 

_ Imun _ was kind. She spoke to Sanah in Drontisi when she was comfortable, and Freän when she was not, which was often, and never hesitated to translate a word or phrase or to provide Sanah with information about the court, Port Bisnaad, and Drontis as a whole. 

She was less like Kolte than Sanah had originally thought, for Kolte was bright and biting and far too clever for his own good. Imun was clever, but she bent it to her advantage as a servant in the court, and she had the same relaxed friendliness to her that had drawn Sanah to Nasmet, when she first arrived in Ashea. 

“Don’t worry,” Imun said as she pulled Sanah’s hair back into a thick plait. Freän women didn’t generally braid their hair, not entirely at least, and it felt strange and stiff against her neck. “Dron Khezu is known to be quite gentle.”

But no—gentle wasn’t quite the right translation. Considerate, perhaps, was better. 

It gave her a headache, constantly and endlessly, to have to think in two languages.

Sanah thought of that first day in the audience hall, with Khezu looking down at her from her throne. She had been considerate, yes, but she was as unyielding as an old oak tree with its roots set firm. Dron Khezu was the type to take whatever action necessary to preserve and protect her people, and while Sanah respected her for it—

She did not wish to be the one found standing in Drontis’s way. She did not like her chances if she was. 

“Besides,” Imun said, with the air of someone telling a deeply delicious secret, mischievous smile pulling one corner of her mouth up, “Dron Natan has been asking about you.”

Sanah jerked in alarm, though she was not foolish enough to pull herself entirely from Imun’s grasp for fear of having to sit through the braiding process for a second time that evening. When Imun tutted at her, Sanah relaxed back into the chair, letting Imun’s quick, clever fingers finish the last few turns of the braid.

“She’s been asking about me?” Sanah asked, keeping her head still as Imun picked up a pin from the table and slid it into her hair. 

“Well, her head of house asked me, which is more or less the same thing,” Imun admitted. That was hardly better. “Dron Natan’s household is known for being very tight lipped, but from what little I’ve heard, she’s never shown much interest in anyone.”

Yes, well. Whether Natan—or her household’s—interest in Sanah was to be a good thing or not, remained to be seen.

After tying off the braid with a strip of tooled leather, Imun helped her into one of the many dresses that had appeared in her rooms since arriving, this one a deep red; the Drontisi were fond of their dyes, it seemed. Sanah did not know if Imun was procuring them, or Natan, or perhaps some other member of the court she was not aware of. She tried not to consider the matter too closely and was grateful in the end, for her clothes were old and worn and not well suited to the climate or the court. And she was grateful, too, that she was not being forced away from her dresses and skirts entirely. 

“There,” Imun said, smoothing her hands once more over the shoulders of Sanah’s dress. “You look stunning. Don’t be intimidated. It’s all tradition. When a person is to be married, they bring their betrothed to meet the clan. It’s a little different with arranged matches, but the general idea is the same.”

_ Don’t be intimidated.  _ Sure. Easy enough for her to say, Sanah thought as Imun shooed her out into the hall, Imun wasn’t the one who was about to have dinner with a foreign dignitary who held her people’s lives in her hands. 

...It also would have been nice to know what the dinner really was _before_ this particular moment. She was even less prepared for a _meet the family_ event than she was for a state dinner.

One of the guards moved—it was Inen and Arre tonight, and it was Arre who stepped forward—and so Sanah allowed him to show her the way to—wherever it was she would be dining tonight. The path wound them through the audience halls and great, public chambers and over a bridge Sanah had not yet worked up the nerve to cross. It was one of the few places there was always a guard present, and now, she had an idea as to why.

They passed two squat, modest buildings before Arre gestured ahead and said, slowly, considerately, in Drontisi, “Here we are, Princet.”

Her title always sounded somewhat strange in the mouths of those who didn’t know a word of Freän, but she appreciated the thought tremendously. 

Sanah nodded and said, “Thank you, Arre.”

He nodded, a little awkwardly, and turned back towards the bridge. She wasn’t sure if he would leave entirely or linger nearby; there always seemed to be a guard by her, whenever she left her rooms, but she wasn’t sure what they did when she was otherwise occupied.

Not, she thought, smiling wryly to herself as she mounted the stairs, that she was often _occupied,_ these days. 

She reached the doorway and stopped, unsure of the custom. She should have asked Arre, or Imun. Was she to just go in? Knock? Would they have her remove her shoes, or expect her to keep them on?

She was _desperately_ underprepared, and wished Imun had spent less time talking about Dron Natan’s household and more time reminding her of all the little and terribly important cultural cues she could not remember, if she had ever known them to begin with. 

Before Sanah could turn back and chase after Arre—a tempting thought, to say the least—a tall, shadowed figure stooped through the silks and drew to a stop so as not to run into her. Sanah took an involuntary step back, trying to allow them more room and caught the hem of her dress, shifted off balance—

Strong hands caught her by the upper arms, and Sanah looked up to see the dark, familiar eyes of Dron Natan. 

“Oh,” she said, mortified and burning with it. She lifted her foot off her dress and shifted to support her own weight again. “My apologies, Dron Natan.”

But Dron Natan did not release her, not immediately. She made a face and said, in Freän, “Please, call me Natan. I do not feel the need to stand on ceremony with my future wife.”

Sanah swallowed, and said, “My apologies then, Natan.”

Natan’s eyes flicked over Sanah’s face for a long moment, and something like a smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. Only then did she let go of Sanah’s arms and step back. She watched Sanah fuss with the drape of her skirts for a moment, and then said, “I welcome to the home of my aunt, Princet da’Strua.”

Sanah flicked a glance up at her. At a distance, she could make out very little of her expression.

“Call me Sanah, please,” she said, if only to return the honor that Natan had gifted her with.

The light caught the curve of Natan’s cheek as she smiled, and then she pivoted, gesturing behind her towards the entryway. 

As they stepped through the silks, Sanah blinked into the bright light and waited for her vision to adjust. When it did, she found a whole host of people staring back at her. Most shared Natan and Khezu’s height and broad shoulders, but here and there she could see others with a build more similar to her own. 

Natan rested a hand, tentative and so light Sanah could barely feel it, on her lower back, and said to the assembled crowd, “My family and kin, I present to you Sanah da’Strua, Princet of Fre Strua, Iron of the Elu Mountains.”

Sanah felt as though her breath had been punched out of her, and missed the names of the first several people she was introduced to. Natan could not know that the title _Iron_ was both a blessing and a curse—and, always, an insult. She did not even know how that title had followed her across the Serian Sea. 

With a great deal of effort, Sanah focused her mind again, in time to learn that the young man from the audience hall was Ouzan, Natan’s younger brother. There were, it seemed, an abundance of brothers and sisters and cousins, and Sanah could not for the life of her remember who was meant to be the heir apparent. One of the aunts or uncles, she thought, who were, in fact, Khezu’s nieces and nephews, the children of her siblings who were now all dead. 

It was loud and overwhelming, and she would never be able to remember all of the names offered to her. It was only the faint pressure of Natan’s hand against her back that kept her grounded and tethered.

At last they came to Dron Khezu, seated at the head of the table that occupied a good portion of the room. Sanah went to bow, and Khezu laughed. 

“No, child. You’re family now. In our home, we do not stand on ceremony.” And then she rose, took one of Sanah’s hands in both of her own, and smiled. “It is good to meet you without the formality of the court. I apologize that it was so delayed.”

Sanah had exactly _no_ idea of what to do with that statement, but it didn’t seem that Khezu required anything of her, and so she let Natan steer her away to a seat. She sat. Someone—one of Natan’s aunts, maybe—began spooning food onto the plate set before her. 

This was nothing like Fre Strua, where formality guided their every move, even within her family. She had never once had a family dinner such as this; even when her father had been alive, and her mother, in a time when Eindra did not hate her and her younger siblings had not been sent away for their own safety—even then, evening meals had been taken with the court, and they had not been allowed to step out of line. Even the slightest breach of propriety would land her in extra etiquette lessons, at the very least. 

Sanah breathed through her nose and focused on the food in front of her. It was delicious, and she said as much to—someone. Pleased laughter broke out around her. 

Beside her, Natan touched a hand to her shoulder, and Sanah shifted to meet her gaze. There was something cautious in her eyes, and Sanah remembered what Imun had said—though it was different, in arranged marriages, this was still important. And if it was important, it could make or break their opinion of her, and _that_ could affect the aid they provided to Fre Strua.

She smiled at Natan, and turned back to listen as Ouzan told a story about him, Natan, and a sparring mishap from their childhood. Sanah listened, and smiled, and tried to enjoy herself. Though speaking with Imun and Arre and others in the court had helped her grasp on Drontisi, she still missed some of the nuance, or didn’t understand certain words, but she did her best to parse through what was being said. 

It was less easy, however, to enjoy herself when an uncle brought up the wedding, and Sanah learned that she was to be married in little more than a week’s time. It felt impossibly soon; in Fre Strua, these things took months—in some extreme cases, years—to plan. Not so, apparently, in Drontis. 

Once or twice more throughout the night, Natan touched her hand to Sanah’s shoulder, and each time she turned to meet her gaze. She was striking, truly, and her eyes were the most striking thing about her. 

Later, much later, when the youngest children in attendance had fallen asleep on a parent’s or aunt’s or grandmother’s lap, Natan stood, and gestured for Sanah to follow her. It took a long moment to extract herself from the goodbyes and well wishes, but eventually she followed Natan out through the entryway. 

Natan stood, looking out over the path that curved away through the nearby buildings. Sanah wondered if they all belonged to Khezu’s kin. Natan shifted to glance at Sanah from the corner of her eye, light catching on the sharp edge of her jaw, and then said, “You must find us very strange.”

Sanah hesitated, but the answer was too obvious to lie about.

“Yes,” she said, coming to stand even with Natan. They looked out into the night together. “But that isn’t a bad thing. You must have found Fre Kires very strange, when you visited.”

Natan gave her a rueful smile that was a confirmation rather than a denial. 

In the silence that fell between them, Sanah could hear the faintest hints of the stream, somewhere just out of sight. She brought her arms up to clasp both of her elbows. 

“I saw you weaving in the gardens this morning,” Natan said, voice low and soft. Sanah tensed, but Natan did not sound angry. “I was hoping I might join you in the morning, if you will be there again.”

Sanah breathed in and out, and told herself that she should not assume the worst at all times. But it was hard, when she was alone here, and did not know what would be the moment that pushed her over the edge. Maybe it would never come, but she couldn’t be sure of that, not when her people relied on her. 

She breathed, and said, “I would like that. Tomorrow morning?”

And Natan smiled, brilliant and pleased, and said, “Tomorrow morning. Let me walk you back to your rooms.”

There was no reason to say no, and so Sanah said yes.

*

As promised, Natan found her the next morning in the gardens just as Sanah was setting aside her loom. Her braids were pulled back into a thick knot, and she looked as handsome as ever in a set of fitted pants of a thick fabric and a shirt that clung to her arms and shoulders, dark in places with sweat. There was a bow across her back and a quiver at her hip, which meant she must have come immediately from the practice fields to meet her here. 

Sanah looked up at her, and had to shade her eyes against the bright, directionless gray of the pre-dawn sky. She tried to think of something to say, something that would convey her gratitude for Natan’s steady presence at her side the night before, and found nothing. So instead, she said, “Hello. Would you like to sit?”

Natan smiled, and sat, shifting her quiver out of the way. She sat in silence, watching as Sanah fit the brass spool into the crook of her arm, positioned the metal between her fingers, and dropped the spindle with her free hand so that it began to spin.

She felt the call of the metal and heeded it, letting the nature of it determine the final shape. 

At last, Natan said, in Freän, “Will you tell me about your metalsmything?” When Sanah glanced up, Natan’s attention was fixed on her hands as they worked. “I learned some, during my time in Fre Kires, but I’m afraid most of the theory was… a bit beyond me.”

Sanah didn’t doubt it. If she’d been learning from scholars or masterweavers, they were well known for forgetting the skill level of their audience and launching into the minutiae of their specific field of study or speciality. Sanah had learned from the women of Ashea, in those terrible months after Eindra had offered her a choice: death, or exile. At times, it had felt as though the metal in her hands was the only thing keeping her from spinning herself into wretched, broken pieces. 

She worked the brass, and thought, and then she said, “Not everyone is equipped to learn it, and that can make it difficult to explain to others. But I’ve always felt the metal as a song. The metal calls, and I respond.”

Sanah explained the spark that let them manipulate the metal, as best as she could. The weaverwomen of Ashea had not known all of the theory, and it was never something Sanah was encouraged to learn about as princet. She had never truly thought of how it must sound to an outsider. 

She showed Natan how she spun the thread out, and let Natan feel the callouses that had formed on her fingers after five years of it. Natan’s skin was warm against her own, calloused in different spots from her work with a bow. 

She finished the spool of brass under Natan’s watchful gaze, and turned then to winding the thread around her small shuttle. She didn’t always use it, but she found that she wanted to show all of the pieces to Natan. No matter how long it took.

*

After that first meeting in the garden, days seemed to disappear every time she blinked. Natan did not meet her in the garden every morning—and Sanah did not go there, or weave on her loom, everyday—but the mornings they spent together were… pleasant. Natan cared for what had to say, that much was clear, and it was equally clear that she respected their differences. 

The morning of her marriage to Natan, Imun laced her into a dress cut in the Freän style, though the fabric was light and undoubtedly Drontisi. Sanah was only glad that the trend of tying a gown with metal laces hadn’t caught on in Drontis, or that some poor tailor hadn’t heard of the style and assumed it was customary. Metal laces bruised spectacularly when drawn too tight, and considering the zeal with which Imun took to the task, Sanah was sure she would have suffered further.

The dress was gorgeous, and certainly fit for a wedding, though it was dyed that same deep blue the Drontisi seemed to love so much instead of the rust dye her people favored. Stitches at the hem and the neckline echoed the geometrics patterns of the Elu Mountains. Sanah felt the pattern that wound its way around the cuff of one sleeve and bit her lip against the realization that it was _metal._

She wondered if it was the work of Ghissa, or another masterweaver who now called Drontis home. 

If she were in Fre Strua, they would have draped her in silverlace and wound delicate chains of gold and jewels through her hair. But Imun left her hair untouched. 

Arre and Inen where beyond her door, and they bowed when she emerged, holding her skirts up so they wouldn’t drag across the ground. They escorted her across the length of the court, back towards the audience hall where she had first arrived.

As it turned out, that was exactly where they were leading her, and they deposited her just beyond the threshold in the care of Suva, Natan’s eldest cousin. She checked Sanah over one final time, brushed her hair back over her shoulders, and nodded to the guards stationed at the great audience hall doors. On some silent, unknown count, they swung the doors open in concert, and Sanah was ushered through.

The eyes of the Drontisi court turned to stare at her. They had heard, surely, about her purpose there in the two weeks—had it truly been so little time?—since her arrival. But while some were sharp and considering, many looked at her with the sort of detached benevolence that she found always came with weddings.

This one just happened to be _hers._

She had nothing to hold in her hands as she walked, but she could see Natan waiting for her at the end of the aisle. She was dressed in pants and a tunic of a similar cut as her preferred clothing, but even from here Sanah could tell the quality was far beyond anything Natan had worn around her before. Her hair had been picked out of its braids and left to fall around her shoulders. 

She looked as handsome as she always did, and it made something fragile and new turn over in Sanah’s chest. 

This wasn’t love—not yet. But it could be. And even if all she found with Natan was friendship, she would take it, both for the gaining of a friend and the knowledge that her people would have what assistance they needed. 

Sanah breathed in, and stepped forward. 

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of ideas for where their stories might go, after the end of this fic. Really, it's only the beginning for Sanah and Natan. Maybe one day I'll return, but I certainly can't make any promises.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Comments and kudos are always appreciated.


End file.
